First Class
by Sionnain
Summary: Jean and Emma are stuck back in coach on a transAtlantic flight. There are two seats open in first class, and someone else has offered to pay for them. What will our intrepid heroines do to escape their misery? Or, rather, what won't they do? JeanXEmma.


**First Class**

The flight from London to New York is full. Jean is pressing her fingers against her temples. Rubbing, slowly. The flight is three hours late. People are still filing into the plane, shuffling down the center aisle, tired and cranky. Jean has her shields up but she feels it like a wave pressing against glass; there, heavy and waiting for the slightest crack to come rushing in and drown her. Across the aisle, there is a harried mother dealing with a wailing infant and a two-year old in the midst of a tantrum.

_Can't make them all stop. Can't do that. Very bad. Charles Xavier would be furious. X-Men. Morals, morals, morals._

Next to her, Emma Frost is in high diva mode, complaining about the seats and the accommodations and the fact someone has completed the crossword puzzle in her _Sky_ magazine.

_Like you could do it anyway,_ Jean thinks, and doesn't even bother to shield the thought.

"We are _not_ riding back here. I absolutely will not be crammed together like this for a trans-Atlantic flight. You may be some sort of masochist, Jean, but I assure you, I am not. This is unacceptable."

"Emma," Jean says, every ounce patience she has seeping out in her tone. "The flight is full."

"There were two seats left in first class. One little psychic suggestion and they're ours."

They can't do that. It's wrong. It's against the X-Men's ethical principles. The little boy next to her wails some more, screaming about cookies and some kind of toy he's been denied. Jean thinks about it, briefly, how easy it would be to do what Emma is suggesting. But they can't. It's wrong. It's Emma's style, not Jean's. The baby is wailing in counterpoint. Jean considers drinking herself into a stupor to pass the flight time.

Emma reaches up and presses the flight attendant button with her perfectly manicured nail. "I'm going to switch seats. And I won't even use my powers. Just watch."

"What are you going to do? Show them your boobs?" Jean tilts her head back and grits her teeth. The behind her is on his cell phone, talking nonstop about "arrangements" and "of course Alexandria won't be there," and "why don't you trust me?" He's getting on her last nerve. Well. The one Emma's not currently standing upon and bouncing up and down with her kitten-heeled Jimmy Choos. Who the hell wears high-heels on a plane? Jean's wearing Sketchers. At least she's comfortable. "Oh, wait. You _always_ show people your boobs," she says to Emma, because being mean right now is the only escape she _has_.

"Your scintillating conversation skills are yet another reason I refuse to be relegated to the cargo hold of this airplane." Emma craned her neck, waiting. "I am not going to use my powers to coerce anyone. I am, however, going to find out how much I have to pay to get one of those upgrades to first class." Emma's smile is tight and unpleasant. She looks tired, too. Jean doesn't care. She's about to offer to switch places with the young mother and sit by the toddler and the infant.

But she wouldn't do that to a poor, unsuspecting mother. Even if the toddler and infant would be preferable company to a cranky Emma Frost.

"Fine, vilify me all you want, Jean. I'll be horribly saddened about it up in the peace and quiet of first class." Emma's smile becomes slicker, like oil sliding across the surface of water. Jean looks up at the young man who appears next to their row, then back at Emma, who leans forward suggestively.

_Of course. The boobs. God. They're nice enough, but not that great._

_Why, Jean._ Emma's voice drifts across her mind; psychic signature a cool blue edged with white. _I didn't know you'd noticed._

"Yes, I would like to move to first class, please."

Jean snorts. She can't help it. The guy is looking at Emma as if she's just said she'd really like it if they can get to New York in three minutes instead of six hours. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but that's not possible. A couple a few seats up is going to pay for the upgrade, and those are our last two seats."

"I'll pay more," Emma says, her smile sharpening. She reminds Jean of a shark scenting blood. Emma is reaching for the checkbook. Her hand brushes Jean's leg as she reaches down.

Jean feels it, then. A sharp spike of interest, from the young man in the aisle. She keeps her mouth shut. Behind her, there is some kind of commotion. People switching seats. The woman and her two kids. Oh, great. Now they are behind Jean's seat, instead of across the aisle. Jean slumps down in her chair. Emma is still arguing with the flight attendant.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you see, it wouldn't be right--" The flight attendant definitely looks uncomfortable. He is shifting on his feet, his eyes darting back towards the front of the cabin. It is obvious he wants to leave and end this conversation. Jean doesn't blame him.

Behind her, the little boy is kicking her seat. Next to her, the man on the cell phone is arguing loudly. In something that isn't English. In front of them, in the aisle, a woman is refusing to allow the harried flight crew to put her bag a few aisles back in the overhead compartment. The flight is now almost four hours late. Jean reaches up and turns on the little air spout on the panel above the seat, wanting some cool air. It is stuffy and hot in the plane. Hers doesn't work.

Figures.

"I am willing to _compensate_ you _personally_, Mr.--Sage, is it?--and include a substantial tip as well." Emma's practically draped over Jean's lap. It's not working. The man is beginning to retreat.

Jean closes her eyes, to get rid of the headache. Fire bursts behind her eyes. For a moment she thinks of the Phoenix and death and pain and worlds devoured. Then she realizes it's the kid, behind her, pulling her hair. She is going to start crying. His hand is sticky. The woman is apologizing. Jean cannot take this, anymore. She searches through the man's mind. Not to get them the upgrade, but just to see. If there is something he wants. Something they can do that will entice him to allow Emma to pay for the upgrade. For the both of them. No way is Frost getting out of this.

Jean finds it. Simple. Easy. Predictable. A surface thought.

_Men. Honestly._

Jean leans over and stops Emma's tirade with her mouth. Slides her hands up over Emma's arm. Emma tastes minty, and cool. Jean traces her fingers up Emma's neck and she curls her hand around, pulling the other woman closer.

_What the hell are you--_

_It's the one thing that is going to convince him,_ Jean sends back, nibbling on Emma's lower lip. She makes sure the flight attendant can see her running her tongue over Emma's mouth. Can see her fingers, sliding down and skimming the tops of Emma's breasts.

There is a warm tint to Emma's psychic return. _...Jean. I'm shocked._ Emma's mouth is soft beneath hers.

Jean is surprised to hear the slight giggle in Emma's words. She's amused. She's kissing Jean back. It's not bad, really. Emma's good at kissing. It's soft and wet and Emma's fingers are in her hair, which is different, because Emma has nails. Jean forgets about the kid kicking her seat and the infant wailing. She doesn't hear the man on the cell phone. She doesn't care about the woman in the aisle. Mr. Sage the flight attendant is all but forgotten.

Jean pulls back and opens her eyes. Blinks at Emma. Emma's staring at her, eyes wide. This close-up, Jean notices they are beautiful, Emma's eyes. Pale and ocean-gray. Jean turns her head. "My girlfriend and I would really _really_ appreciate it, sir," Jean says throatily. She slides her fingers into Emma's mouth. Emma sucks on them, but she's giving Jean a mental message.

_Lucky I didn't bite these off, Grey._ Emma slides her tongue over Jean's fingers. Jean actually sucks in a breath--she'd not expected that, and the fact it felt...well. Okay. Not bad. What the hell was she thinking? God. _Making it look real, darling_, Emma purrs in her mind. Voice like velvet soaked in whiskey. It's the shock of the century to Jean that Emma is actually _enjoying_ this. She's letting Jean know it, too. Her body is flushed and languid and her tongue is circling the top of Jean's fingers.

There is something, in Emma's thoughts. A challenge. Jean slides her hand up Emma's thighs, beneath her skirt. Emma's skin is cool but slightly damp. They are staring at each other. Jean almost wants to see how far she can take this. She's not sure why, though. Maybe she just doesn't want to be the one who stops, because then Emma would win.

_We could both win,_ Emma thinks at her, and Jean smiles. It's not the sort of smile she's ever shown Emma, before. Emma nips lightly at her finger in response.

The flight attendant clears his throat.

Ten minutes later, they are in first class. Emma stretches out, sighing in pleasure. It's almost the same sound she made when she had Jean's fingers in her mouth. Jean doesn't want to think about what that means. It is quiet and cool in the cabin, up here. Jean's air spout works. The seat reclines. There are no children in first class. No one is on a cell phone.

Jean looks over at Emma, who is smirking and flipping open her newly-acquired _Sky_ magazine, crossword untouched.

"What?"

"You know what," Emma says, giggling again. She looks younger, somehow. Less tired. Why is that? It's because her smile isn't forced, like it usually is. "You just made all those people forget about this. I know you did. All of that effort, and you could have just saved us the trouble if you'd let me implant that suggestion to put us up here. Why did you start making out with me instead of just doing that?"

"My morals," Jean responded. She has a nice large whiskey sour in front of her. "Had to keep my morals." She raises her glass to Emma.

"Oh, of course. Glad to know that kissing another woman--even me--is less threatening to your moral code than switching seats on a plane."

"Emma, I couldn't force that man to move us. It's violating his free will."

"Did you ask me before you kissed me? Put your fingers in my mouth?"

"Your free will doesn't matter. You're part of the team." Jean realizes, seconds later, what she's just said. She looks over at Emma and narrows her eyes. "Don't make that more than it is, Frost."

"I wouldn't dream of it, darling," Emma says, deadpan. She leans back and closes her eyes.

Jean thinks, for a moment, that they make quite a formidable team, she and Emma. Which is, of course, a terrifying thought.

_Is it scarier than the fact you liked kissing me?_

_Shut up, Frost._

_Have another drink, Grey. I swear, it's like being on a trip with Tony Stark._

"Did he grope you, too?" Jean asked, unable to help herself.

"What do you think?" Emma sounds amused. "Of course he did."

Jean finishes her drink, but she doesn't get another one. She's feeling a little tipsy. She kissed Emma while she was sober. Get her drunk, and there was no telling what she'd do...


End file.
